Bonefire of the Vanities (7 page)

“Uh-oh,” Harold said under his breath. “The dog has no common sense.”

When he was done, Roscoe sprinted to the car like his ass was on fire. He flew past Harold and into the backseat.

“Hey, Cisco, let’s beat it out of here.” Harold’s terrible Spanish accent quoted a long-ago television show,
The Cisco Kid
. He jumped back in the car.

“Sí, Pancho.”
I put it in reverse and stepped on the gas. Gravel and dust churned under the tires as the guards ran toward us. There was nothing to gain by talking to them, and I didn’t want them to get a good look at me.

The security guards yelled at us. Roscoe put his paws on the back of my seat and barked a challenge. I had no doubt he was taunting the men. Sweetie was too dignified to participate in baiting sentries.

“So that was Heart’s Desire,” Harold said after we were safely able to turn around and speed away. “How will you get inside? Not even I can fake a Dun and Bradstreet to open that gate for you.”

“Tinkie could convince them she’s a wealthy heiress, but it would never work for me.” Tinkie had the clothes, the graces, and the mannerisms of the upper class. I was an accomplished tomboy.

Harold laughed. “You’re an actress, Sarah Booth. Of course you could do it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’d rather go in with access to the whole house.” I had an idea. “I require a license to snoop in every nook and cranny, but there’s one type of employee who moves freely through every wealthy person’s home.”

“What are you thinking about?” He knew me well enough to be concerned.

“I think Tinkie and I will be maids.”

“Oh, Tinkie will love that!”

“She’ll balk at wearing housekeeping garb, but she’ll come around.” My partner was a fashion statement even in her sleep, but she would dress down to solve a case.

“The truth is, she’ll do anything for you, Sarah Booth.”

“And me for her.”

“That’s why you’re such excellent partners. Now, let’s plan this out.”

As we raced toward home, Harold and I laid the groundwork for a sneak attack on Heart’s Desire. If Tinkie and I could get inside, the first order of business would be to communicate with Marjorie Littlefield and convince her to come out of the compound and return to her life.

“I keep asking myself why she’d do this,” Harold said. “She isn’t a quitter. She’s a savvy lady with a flair for life. My family knew her socially in New Orleans. I grew up occasionally playing with Chasley on summer weekends when our families visited. Marjorie is smart, well educated, well read.… Going into a place with a bunch of phonies, that isn’t Marjorie.”

I hadn’t told Harold about the DVD, but now I did.

“That’s cruel!” He was furious. “Even worse, it’s like an invitation to death.”

I hadn’t really thought of it that way, but he was right. When the child said she was waiting, was it an invitation to leave this life behind and join the dead child in another place? It had to have been crafted for Marjorie. But why leave it behind in New Orleans? I still had no answer.

“The video doesn’t make complete sense. The other footage on the tapes dates back to when the Westins ran the Pleasure Zone in New Orleans. Pre-Katrina, so before 2005. It could date back as far as 1995, when the Westins started their … business. Mariam’s been dead a lot longer than that.”

“It’s pure luck you stole the trash bags.” Harold clearly saw my skepticism. “And that you looked at them is a miracle. Anything else interesting?”

I dodged the question, uncertain how to handle the content of the videos I’d seen. “I’ve had several people tell me that Sherry Westin can speak with the dead. What’s your take on that?”

“I’ve never met Sherry.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I do believe some people have a gift, Sarah Booth. Madam Tommeka, for instance. I believe we all have a sixth sense or whatever you want to call it, but most of us blunt our sensitivities. So it stands to reason others have developed theirs.”

“You think a ghost can be captured on film?” I’d never tried to photograph Jitty. It was somehow a violation.

“I don’t know.”

I hadn’t expected Harold to be so open to the idea of communicating with spirits. If he believed it … others might.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to talk to someone who’s passed on?” he asked.

I thought of my parents. “Every day.” Now was the time I could tell him about Jitty, but I hesitated. I’d never shared the truth about my heirloom haint with anyone. I was a little afraid if I said anything, she’d simply disappear, as if I’d betrayed her somehow. So I kept silent, wondering if I’d ever have the nerve to tell Graf.

“Me, too,” Harold said. “I’d love to tell my mother about my life. Maybe get her advice, and thank her and say how much I appreciate the many things she taught me and the time she took with me.”

“Yeah.” If he didn’t stop, I would get emotional. “But if someone does have a special gift like this, doesn’t it stand to reason they should use it only for good?”

“One would think, if one were a naïve fool.” Harold patted my hand. “The strongest human drive is greed, Sarah Booth. A few people might be altruistic, but others wouldn’t be able to resist the impulse to use their talent to make money. Obviously, if Sherry is the real deal, she’s yielded to the compulsion to use her abilities as a medium for money, not to help people.”

“That’s creepy and wrong.”

“Doctors do it. Lawyers do it. Policemen, teachers, musicians, artists, and don’t forget the politicians. Why should someone who can speak with the dead be any different? There’s an old saying: Everyone has a price. For most, it’s money. Others sell out for companionship.”

He made a good argument. Still, it depressed me. Communicating with the dead was a truly special gift. To use it to manipulate people to give up money seemed more wrong than robbing them at gunpoint.

“You’re right.” We crossed the city limits into Zinnia. “Harold, I need a favor.”

“Ask away.”

“Can you call Mrs. Littlefield and tell her to demand her personal maids?”

“Presuming I can find a number for this reclusive place, of course I will.”

“First thing tomorrow?”

“What’s the rush?”

“I’m worried about Mrs. Littlefield, and also I need to stay busy. If I don’t, I’ll make myself sick about Graf.”

“I’ll take care of it as soon as the bank opens. Do you want access tomorrow around noon?”

“Yes.” If Tinkie and I planned to continue with Delaney Detective Agency, we needed to act. If Oscar intended to make Tinkie quit, I had to know. As for Graf, if he didn’t contact me by tomorrow morning, I would be out of touch. Physically and emotionally.

“Consider it done,” Harold said as I pulled into his driveway.

I slowed beneath the arching limbs of the old trees that created a tunnel down his winding driveway. Once, he’d wrapped the branches of the live oaks with twinkle lights just for me. At the memory, my thumb gave a tiny little pulse.

“Thank you, Harold.”

“Sarah Booth, I wish you and Graf the utmost happiness, but a part of me still would like a chance to court you.”

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “The future is a scary place, Harold.”

His hand grazed my chin. “Keep it in mind. I may be the only man you know who can give you the freedom you need and the support you deserve.”

His words almost broke my heart. “Now isn’t the time, Harold. I’m wearing Graf’s ring.”

“Life moves swiftly. If things don’t work out with Graf, I want you to know my feelings. I’ve played the field my entire life. I know what I want. And I know you, warts and all.” He picked up my hand and kissed the base of my palm. “But whatever happens, we will always be friends. That you can count on.”

He opened the door and got out. “Come along, Roscoe,” he said as he mounted the steps to his porch.

Sweetie gave a low groan of good-bye to Roscoe and then hopped into the front seat, where she curled up for a nap as we drove home, my thumb tingling in a way that made me feel as if I’d betrayed my fiancé.

*   *   *

“Sarah Booth, I’ll risk my life for you any day, but I will
not
wear that!” Tinkie walked around her desk in Delaney Detective Agency and dropped the white housekeeper smock on the floor beside the white rubber-soled shoes. “I just can’t do it.”

“You’d leave Marjorie Littlefield to the tender mercies of the Westin women?” I fought hard to keep my giggle in check. The maid’s outfit was a tiny bit of meanness on my part. It was the ugliest uniform I could find at the local Goodwill store.

“I’ll wear something plain. And practical. But I will not wear that … monstrosity.”

“What about the shoes?” The devil had me by the ear.

“No. I can’t. It would break my spirit. They’re just so … ugly!”

“Harold went to a lot of trouble to get us access to Heart’s Desire.” I picked up the clothes from the parquet floor and put them in a plastic bag. From behind the desk I brought out another bag with khaki slacks and polo shirts, along with some beige lace-up shoes claiming to firm one’s tush as one walked.

“I’ll speak with Harold and—” She caught sight of the other bag. “What’s that?”

I tossed it to her. “What we really have to wear.”

“Sarah Booth! You are pure-dee mean!”

I laughed out loud. “No, it was just a little fun—at your expense. We need to head out to Heart’s Desire ASAP. I’ve wrangled a compact car for us. We can’t take your Caddy and we sure can’t show up in an antique Roadster.”

I’d been a busy girl all morning, acting on the belief Harold would get through to Marjorie and make her understand the importance of demanding her “personal maids.” I’d been right to place my faith in the man who worked so strangely on my thumb.

“I meant to ask you about the car parked at the side of the house.” Tinkie rifled through her clothes suspiciously, but they obviously met with her approval as she began to step out of her stylish Capri set.

I went to the desk for a photo I’d printed from Google Earth. Using satellites and photography, the aerial surveillance showed Heart’s Desire, complete with the eight-foot-high solid wall around ten acres surrounded by woods. Barrack-type structures were barely visible through the dense trees, and there was an apple orchard, and what looked like an old stable and pastures a half mile from the house.

The main house of Heart’s Desire was a U-shaped three-story mansion with a single-story outbuilding at the back and a large parking garage.

“Holy cow.” Tinkie studied the map. “That’s a serious compound.” She tapped the page. “It’s great to know the layout of the buildings, though. There are two levels of security. The wall, which is guarded, and perimeter roads around the entire tract, which must be close to two sections of land.”

“Exactly two sections. The property is a rectangle with two sides running two miles and the short sides only a mile.”

She whistled. “None of it is in cotton. It’s all wooded.”

Fertile soil that wasn’t planted might be considered a waste by some.

“Oscar told me the Westins bought the property in foreclosure.”

“The sad thing is that someone always profits from the misfortune of others.”

It was a touchy point with me. I’d almost lost Dahlia House for the mortgage and back taxes. “What did Oscar say about this job?”

“He’s pissed right now. Then he’ll be worried. But honestly, we’re going to be maids for a day, two at most. That doesn’t sound too dangerous to me.”

Nor me, but this was how it always began—with some innocent-sounding case that should take only a day or so and involve nothing more than a report or a bit of snooping.

“And Graf?” she asked.

I was working hard to avoid the fact that Graf still hadn’t called. The doorbell rang, and I opened the front door to the UPS man. I signed for the flat package he gave me and then hurried back to Tinkie. She was dressed for maid work when I got back to the office.

“A present?”

“From Graf.” My heart sank to my shoes. He hadn’t called, but he’d sent a package clearly containing paperwork. Not a good sign in a distressed relationship.

I tore it open, and a heavy, bound document fell out.
DELTA BLUES
was stamped on the cover of a movie script. I looked at Tinkie. “Graf won’t return my phone calls but he sent me a movie script.”

“What’s it about?” Tinkie asked the logical question.

I thumbed through it. “It’s a crime drama centered around the Mississippi Delta blues music and two private investigators, a male and female, who are tracking down the bad guy.”

Tinkie’s teeth gleamed. “So, he won’t talk to you but he sent you a script with a role perfect for the two of you. It’s a wonderful answer. And it could be filmed right here in Mississippi, so you wouldn’t have to travel! It’s ingenious! Don’t you see, Sarah Booth, he’s trying to patch things up.”

The relief was intense. Almost enough to make me overlook his wrongheaded approach to our relationship. “You know, it would have been so much simpler for him to pick up the phone and dial it.”

“Simpler from the female perspective. You’re dealing with a man. They don’t have logical thought processes.”

“And they don’t know how to say they were wrong.”

“That, too. But for heaven’s sake, missy, this is great news! What are you going to tell him?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I’ll call a Los Angeles bakery and order a dozen homemade biscuits delivered to his trailer on the set.” Two could play this game.

Tinkie patted the script. “What a strange engagement you two have. Movies and biscuits. Hurry up and place the order. We need to get to Heart’s Desire so we can talk to Mrs. Littlefield and get back to our men.”

*   *   *

We arrived at the compound a little after eleven. At the gate, armed guards surrounded us. Even though I’d prepared Tinkie for the security, she protested loudly as the vehicle was thoroughly searched. The security team confiscated our cell phones and her camera.

“No electronic devices allowed,” a guard said. “Pick them up on your way out.”

“Do they interfere with the communications with the dead?” Tinkie asked sweetly.